Five Stages of Grief
by Casscaro
Summary: A series of five paired scenes based very loosely on one model of the five stages we go through when we grieve: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. So you may gather from that there is some angst involved. Post 'Chosen', Buffy and Spike
1. Denial

**STAGE 1 - DENIAL**

**Spike**

"I love you."

Her words stop his world. The stinging agony of his brightness, the sound and fury of the collapsing Hellmouth, all signify nothing. She is all there is, small and suddenly fragile, as if a word could break her.

He sees the awe in her eyes, the dawning realisation that the words she intended in that moment to be for _him_, the words she thought he wanted to hear, are, after all, as much for _her_ – the truth, _her_ truth as best she knows it. He feels through the binding of their entwined, flame-bright hands what she has felt, what is in her heart. The spark; the first, terrifying, breathtaking glow of the love that is body, mind, soul, _being_. He knows with the clear, calm certainty of that moment that what she feels isn't that love, not yet, but it could be; a word, a touch and it would burn for him. He put the spark in her heart and at last the spark could grow to the flame and the flame could consume them both.

But there is no time.

He needs to tell her that what she feels is just the start; that it could be so much more, that he hopes one day she'll feel the fire, truly know what it is to love. But that it can't be for him, not now.

Because there is no time.

He wants to tell her goodbye. He wants to say so much, to explain why he needs to do this, to make her understand. To tell her how _tired_ he is, how weary with the weight of sins and soul. How he wants to put it right. How he doesn't know what lies beyond all this – but he's ready to find out. He wants to tell her how he loves her, more now than ever as she offers him her heart, but how he doesn't need her to be complete. His journey is no longer hers.

But there is no time.

He's at peace. Content. Ready to see how he ends. And so, before the spark becomes a fire that burns for him, he sets her free.

"No you don't."

"But thanks for saying it."

"Now go."

And the earth shifts and pulls her from him, and he is beyond her.

So she goes.

And, in love and fire and laughter, it ends.

**Buffy**

The last rumbles of pain from the dying town faded to a sudden, deafening silence. In the aftermath of destruction, the world held its breath.

The air was hot against her skin, drying the last remnants of sweat from her brow and leaving her skin stingingly salt-taught. Her fire-dazzled eyes scanned the settling dust, a miasma of brown that blunted shadows and blurred distance, clouds and swirls that shifted in the disturbed air and hid the town lying shattered at the bottom of the crater beneath a sepia pall. Her scorched hand still stung from the fire of his touch, the pain niggling at the edges of her consciousness. She folded her arms, pressed the scalded, tingling flesh of her hand against her side, hugged the hurt against the twisting emotions in her gut and looked out over the void – waiting.

Behind her the small band of survivors talked, and their words seemed distant and otherwordly, remote and inconsequential. They registered at some superficial level, but didn't pierce the rapt focus of her mind on the chaos below.

Eventually, Dawn's voice cut through her thoughts, brought her back from memories of fire and love. "Buffy. What are we gonna do now?"

_Do?_ The question seemed strangely pointless. What else was there to do but wait? Wait for Spike – for him to come back. She gazed out over the crater and she smiled because she knew – _knew_ – that's what would happen, that this wasn't the end. Because come back he would. He'd find a way. Especially now.

"We wait," she said calmly. "We wait for Spike."

"Buffy, I think… no-one could survive that." Willow bit her lip, forced back sudden, unexpected tears. "He's gone."

"No. He's not." She shook her head but didn't turn around, just kept up her steady vigil.

"Buffy, please!" Dawn's anguished voice finally made her turn. They all stood watching her, a ragged band, battle-weary and blood-stained, exhausted in victory. "Buffy… we have injured. We… _they_ need help…"

"We can't just drive off and leave him." Buffy's voice was determinedly reasonable. "He might need help, too."

"This is madness. You're injured." Giles stepped forward and his voice was tight. "There are people who might die if…"

Buffy interrupted him with an impatient shake of her head. "Healing already. Slayer, remember? You take the others – get help for them. I'll stay for tonight. You can come back and get us tomorrow." She looked at him, her eyes hard. "I won't give up on him. He didn't abandon me, even when every one of you did. He deserves… _I_ deserve one night." The others exchanged worried looks, helpless in the face of her resolve. Buffy set her lips determinedly. "Doesn't seem a lot to ask."

"We'll stay with you – me and Kennedy." Willow drew a deep breath. "You're not staying on your own. We don't know if… and then there's beasties… in the desert… real life beasties with… with teeth… and stingy things…"

"You need rest." Buffy shook her head. "I'll be fine. Really." She sighed and rubbed her eyes wearily. "I know you don't get this, but I have to stay. After everything… he shouldn't be alone." She looked up at them resolutely. "I need to be here."

They tried to reason with her, but she was unmoved and unmovable; arms folded, back to the crater as if shielding it, she stared down every one of their ploys. And so, because she remained immune to their arguments and pleading and even Dawn's emotional blackmail, there seemed little else to do. They left her – uneasily and hesitantly and, she knew, with more than a little anger and resentment. But quite honestly that didn't matter right then. She watched the bus pull away, turned off the cellphone they'd insisted she take and turned back to Sunnydale.

She paced the edges of the crater through the desert-cool evening, eyes searching the chaos of broken earth, avid for the first glimpse of him. The desecrated land heaved and sighed, rumbled as it settled on itself, strove to hide the remnants of its hurt. She picked her way through the shifting rubble until another slip of land sent her crashing to her knees, bloodied and bruised next to a jagged, razor-sharp piece of torn metal that would have sliced through her as easily as a blade if she'd fallen an inch or so further. She had to accept that the risks were too great, that she wouldn't be able to help him if she was too injured herself. She hauled herself to her feet and wiped grit and grime and tears of frustration from her stinging eyes, scanning the debris for any signs of movement. A single recognisable feature stood out at the edge of the desolation, a flat, painted sheet of metal. "Welcome to Sunnydale." She limped painfully over to it, sat down on the sign and waited.

The warmth of the day gave way to the cold desert evening and she kept her vigil.

The soft blue of the sky turned to crimson and gold and then to perfect black satin arching over her head scattered with cold, bright stars. The moon rose, the stars turned, and she sat alone.

Remembering.

Waiting.


	2. Anger

**STAGE 2 - ANGER**

**Buffy**

They came back for her the next morning, wending their way through the emergency vehicles and news vans and cars full of gawping sightseers. Police and fire-fighters stood on the edge of desolation, the scale of the devastation beyond their comprehension, while army and National Guardsmen stood by with military indecision. Overhead helicopters criss-crossed the clear blue sky, scanning, testing, analysing – attempting to classify the chaos and rationalise it with science.

Buffy sat at the roadside by a red and white barrier, her face pale and unreadable, lines of strain etched in the dust that grimed her skin. She climbed into the bus without a backward glance, asked after the injured calmly and nodded her tight-lipped satisfaction at their arrangements. She tolerated Dawn fussing over the almost healed wound in her side, avoided her sister's anxious eyes. She spoke little, said less.

She knew they were watching her, sensed the uneasy glances they exchanged, heard the worries whispered between her friends. No-one knew what to say and that was fine by her. She settled in a seat, rested her head against the window and closed her eyes against the questions in theirs. Her body screamed for rest, battle-weary, wounded, drained of strength by the power of her emotions, by the adrenalin rush she'd ridden for hours… days… for what felt like forever. The night cold had seeped into her bones and she felt leaden, heavy under the weight of her new world. But her mind refused to rest – rat-in-a-trap thoughts chasing each other frantically around the cage she'd built for them.

Spike hadn't come back. She'd waited and waited and felt certainty bleed to uncertainty and hope fade to despair. And he hadn't come back.

He was gone.

He was her champion, life-giver, saviour of her future - her _hero_.

_Hero?_

She didn't need a hero. She needed him. Here. Now.

She needed…

How could he do it? She'd told him… _told him_…

And still he left her.

Chose to die.

_How could he do it?_

Choose death over the life she offered him. Choose to end his future… _their_ future.

Hero.

Champion.

Lover.

I love you…

_I want to see how it ends._

The words that had followed her as the world fell apart around her stung her mind, writhed in her chest. How it _ends_? She'd offered him a tomorrow and he chose an _end_?

Left her.

He didn't have to…

She screwed her eyes tight, refused the tears that caught in her throat, took her hurt and wrapped it around the fragility of her heart. She walled the loss and yearning away with anger and held on to the anger to stop herself drowning.

She felt Giles slip onto the seat next to her, sensed his discomfort. "Buffy… do you… can you talk about it?" His voice was careful. "Spike…"

"There's nothing to talk about." She looked round at him, face set. "Spike did his bit. Played the Champion. Saved the world. And now he's gone." Giles winced at the cold, hard anger in her words. "Cleveland, right?" She turned her face back to the window, closed her mind and watched the miles of nothing pass.

**Spike**

The thing about the pain… _the thing about the pain_… was it really shouldn't have mattered.

Had he been human of course, it would have mattered even less, because nature's way would have been to snuff out his consciousness long before it got to the stage he really felt any of it. Only he wasn't human, was he? One of the pluses of being a vampire was nature was kind of inclined to let you suffer – ain't unlife grand?

So the pain – the feel of his nerves screaming as his flesh charred, as muscle shortened and twisted in the heat, organs shrivelled and split, as bones became ash, as skin crisped and tore as the fire burned from within, the final bubbling and boiling of brain – he felt every exquisite, agonising, excruciating moment of it.

But it all shouldn't have mattered.

Because he should be dead, properly dead, and if that meant he went to a better place, then the deal was all his pain would be forgotten as far as he read it, and if it was the other place… well, that particular pain was going to fade into insignificance next to what faced him there. But if, as he had pretty much hoped was the case given his history, this was be it and beyond this was nothing, then he wouldn't be conscious of what it had felt like, would have no memory of it – or anything else, come to that – to revive, so it shouldn't have mattered.

But it did. Because here he was again, reliving the whole thing. Double time. In reverse. A different agony to lay on top of the destroying fire as he was rebuilt, elements wrenched back from the maelstrom around him, forced to recreate bone and tissue and nerves and to restore his consciousness and with it, memory.

He'd read once that the body has no memory for pain, that it remembers that there has been pain and that that pain was intense, but the actual sensation of pain does not linger.

_Bollocks._

He screamed in anguish, doubled up, his muscles imprinted with the pain-memory of the fire, their foreshortening by the heat, his brain reeling in the white-hot, blinding anguish that tore through every cell of his body, as if that agony were imprinted on the very molecules and atoms that had been torn apart then slammed back together.

The pain confused, sent panic signals to an already overloaded brain. As his sight began to clear he made out a bewilderingly unfamiliar office where the crumbling Hellmouth should be, unknown, tear-blurred faces instead of the First' hordes.

_What the bloody hell…?_

The faces were talking, words coming at him as if through static, senseless sounds and syllables, sibilant hissings in stunned ears. He shook his head, tried to clear the clamour of agony, tried to make sense of the bedlam in his brain.

_It ended! It was done!_

"William the Bloody. He's a vampire. One of the worst recorded. Second only to..." Words from the sounds, the beginnings of consciousness.

_No! Shouldn't be here. Shouldn't have to… Who?_

And then – something familiar, cutting through the chaos of his mind. A voice.

"Me."

_Who the **fuck** else would it be?_

The pain and confusion hardened to a single, recognizable emotion that he clutched to his wounded mind. Anger. Blinding, white-hot anger that howled through him, dragging forth the demon. He launched himself at Angel in a confusion of rage, fear and despair.

Finding himself buried up to the goolies in a bloody great desk kind of took the edge off it, though.


	3. Bargaining

**Spike**

"Hey." Her voice greeted him the second he entered the room.

Spike pouted. "How did you know I was there?" No bloody point in being a ghost if you couldn't even sneak up and scare the bejesus out of people.

She took off her glasses and turned to face him with a lazy smile. "I'm gettin' a sixth sense. How you doin'?"

"Oh, you know." He pulled his duster tight around him and shrugged. "Legs are gettin' kind of tired – all that straddling chasms of fire. Wears a bloke out."

Fred picked up a scanner with a concerned frown. "I should check…"

"No." He held up a hand. "Don't. Don't need to have my fading away to nothin' confirmed with your gizmos. It's colder. Not sure I wanna know how much."

"I'm working on it. Honest, I am. You just gotta… hang on in there." She looked at him worriedly and bit her lip. "You're lookin' like someone who's been rode hard 'n' put up wet."

"Been a while since anyone rode _me_ hard, pet." He smirked and raised an eyebrow.

Fred blushed. "You're incorrigible."

"Hope so." He wandered over to peer at the pile of papers and books on her desk, attempting to look knowledgeable in the face of her complicated scrawlings and obscure equations. "Yeah," he drawled, "that's my thinkin' too. But you got a decimal point in the wrong place…"

"What? Where?" Fred stared anxiously at her notes. "It's the Schrödinger equation, isn't it? I always…" she looked up and caught his eye. "Oh, _you_…" she shook her head in exasperation.

Spike grinned. "So, have you figured out how come I can stand on the floor? I mean, I can walk through walls and stuff. An' look," he passed his hand through her desk, "I can do that. So, how come I don't just sink through the floor? Keep on goin' until I pop out 'mong the kangaroos or whatever. S'been worrin' me."

"One of life's big mysteries, huh? You think of the strangest things."

"Well gotta think of somethin'. Other than the yawning pit of hell, naturally."

"And Buffy? D'you think of Buffy?"

He blinked, taken by surprise by the unexpected uttering of her name and the associated customary twinge of pain in his chest. "What brought that on?"

"Oh, something Angel said." Fred shrugged. "You know, no-one'll fess up to what went on with you guys and Buffy. Seems every time her name comes up, you two get to be as friendly as fire ants."

"Well, that'll be 'cause _Angel's_ a great big jealous poof who just can't bear to think that maybe 'forever' turned into 'until somethin' better comes along'." Spike glared at Fred. "Just wanna ask yourself, who was it Buffy kept close at the end? Not Borin' an' Broody up there! No, she sent _him_…"

Fred held up her hands. "Whoa! Slow down there!" She smiled and shook her head. "See what I mean?"

"Yeah." Spike subsided with a frown and a shrug. "Well."

"You know," Fred looked down at her notes with studied insouciance, "I'd kinda like to meet the woman that has two of the main men in my life at each other's throats so often."

"I'm one of your main men?" Spike felt a ridiculous surge of pleasure.

Fred smiled down at her notes. "Maybe I should just invite her on over…"

"No!" Spike pointed a finger at her. "Oh, no! Don't even _think_ about it!"

"Why not?" She looked up at him. "Wouldn't you like to see her?"

"Yes… no…" He frowned. "I dunno! Me an' Buffy – it's complicated…"

"You don't say…" Fred drawled. "Where's complicated? First thing you wanted to do short of killin' Angel was rush to her side. What changed?"

"Well, bein' all Casper doesn't exactly make it easy."

"Now, that's just an excuse and you know it!" Her voice softened. "You feel like talkin' about it?"

He stared at the floor for a moment, then shook his head. "Wouldn't know where to start."

"How 'bout at the beginin'?"

He looked up at her. "Never seemed to have a beginin' as such. Just a load of endings."

"That's sad."

"No, not the last…" His voice was distant, his gaze inward-looking, reliving a memory, a moment, a truth.

"You miss her?" Fred said quietly.

Spike hung his head. "Yeah. I miss her."

"You love her?"

He looked up into her concerned brown eyes and the protective sneer faded. "Yeah." He shrugged uncomfortably, "but…"

"Did she love you?"

He wrapped his arms tightly around himself. "Said she did," he muttered, frowning.

"And you had reason to doubt her?" Fred's soft question made him wince.

"No…" But the thing that bothered him? What if he was wrong? The spark, the thing he'd seen in her, the thing that had healed his heart at the end, the possibility that she… what if he was wrong? He hardly had the best of track records getting things right where Buffy was concerned, so what if what he'd seen – _thought he'd seen_ – back there was wrong? After everything he'd had thrown at him lately, all that was happening to him right now – could he bear that? Hard as it was to admit, and not that he'd ever admit it aloud, but – he was scared.

Fred watched the play of emotions on his face and shook her head. "Spike… what if… what if I can't… sort this out. I mean," she added quickly at Spike's sharp look, "I'm not sayin' I can't but… what if? What if you haven't got the time you think you have? Shouldn't you just be grabbing the chance while you can?" She gave a despairing sigh at his resolutely drooping head. "I loved someone as much as that – I wouldn't hesitate. Call her," she said softly holding out a Post-It note. "Buffy's number. Really." She grinned at his look of surprise. "Only don't tell Angel I gave it to you." He hesitated and then reached out to take it. His hand went straight through the bright yellow paper, without even a breeze to mark its passing. Fred bit her lip. "Oh, I'm…"

His shoulders slumped and he gave a wry shake of his head. "Don't worry about it. See _now_ why I can't see Buffy?"

"You could call her. Just let her know you're back…"

"Not like this."

"You think she'll care?"

"**_I_ **care, OK?"

"But I'll bet she wouldn't!"

"_Look_…" he took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. "I got a bargain for you," he said eventually. "You sort out the mojo, make me solid again. Then I'll call her."

Fred smiled. "You got yourself a deal."

"An' maybe then we can discuss the ridin' hard thing, too." He gave her the patent smirk.

"I did mention incorrigible?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Now off you go an' haunt someone else. This gal's got work to do."

"Me too. Gotta get back to my job as voice of reason and conscience for Captain Forehead. He'd be lost without me." He hesitated. "Fred?" he said finally, "Thanks. For… you know."

She looked up at him, at the vulnerability in suddenly gentle blue eyes and smiled. "Yeah. Spike, whatever happens, you know I'm gonna be here for you. We'll crack it. 'Kay?"

He nodded and swallowed hard. She watched him shrug his duster straight, resume the mask of confidence that covered the insecurity, and stride off through the wall purposefully. She gazed sightlessly at where he'd been for a long moment, then sighed, shook her head and bent back to her calculations.

**Buffy**

Willow had looked at her as if she had completely lost her mind. A cosy, girlie evening in front of the beaten-up TV in the shabby motel, a shared bottle of wine – the perfect setting for a carefully manipulated conversation. At the first hesitant admission of her feelings, of how she missed him, a look of relief had flooded Willow's face and she'd listened, the desire to help her friend almost palpable – until Buffy mentioned, with studied insouciance, the spell. _Willow, remember when_… Buffy had backtracked quickly at the look of horror on her friend's face, shrugged with a "what was I thinking?" smile and told Willow that no, of course she wasn't serious, and she wasn't considering… no way. Been there; seen the consequences. Besides, she was hardly going to be responsible for more Bambi killing. She'd topped up Willow's glass, switched the channel to a classic comedy and the conversation to safer ground.

The moment passed. But the germ of the idea continued to grow, to send its tendrils through Buffy's mind until it occupied her day and disturbed her nights with ghosts of hope.

There were plenty of demons willing to help out to gain favour with a slayer. Those that weren't so willing were open to… persuasion. And the trail had led her here, to a room hidden behind shields of shifting otherness, that seethed with dark shadows and whispered promises, where the air reeked of subtle menace and an underlying power that made her eyes sting and her breath catch in her throat.

The demon watched her carefully through narrowed eyes. It chose to take human form; a tall, slim woman, long black hair curling around a perfect porcelain-pale oval of a face sat calmly on an ebony chair, hands crossed on her lap. Only her eyes gave away her origins – unblinking, fathomless black orbs, surfaced with shifting colours like oil on water, unreadable, alien. Between them, a small silver lamp burned on an ebony table, the light of its small, yellow flame swallowed avidly by the shadows.

"You've come to bargain for a life." The demon's voice was soft and low. "Or rather, an unlife." She tilted her head. "So much pain. I can see it. You draw it close to yourself like a lover…"

"I am not in love with pain."

The demon watched her with detached, almost clinical, interest. "You are in love with _this_ pain. This pain is all you have of him. You are afraid to lose the pain, and so to lose him."

"If you say so." Buffy gritted her teeth against a stab of hurt. "Can you do it?"

"Bring back the vampire hero?" The demon smiled slowly. "Champion? Bane of the First Evil? Beloved of the slayer?" The last word hissed sibilantly in the darkness.

Buffy shrugged. "The one and only."

"Indeed." The demon studied her impassively. "And what… _benefit _do I derive from this?"

"How about I let you live?"

The encroaching darkness rustled and demon arched one delicate eyebrow. "I hardly think you are in a position to threaten me!"

"No." Buffy swallowed hard against the bile that rose in her throat. "I'm sorry." The demon inclined her head graciously and Buffy started again. "OK." She sat back in her chair, feigning a confidence she didn't feel. "You start. What do you want?"

"Want? I have no needs." Around her the darkness seethed and hissed, but the demon's impassive gaze didn't falter.

Buffy shook her head. "Tell me what you want."

The demon smiled briefly. "Ah, now, that will depend on what _you_ want from _me_."

There was a moment's silence. When Buffy spoke her voice was touched with apprehension. "Take me back. Before. Before he… before the Hellmouth."

"To stop his ending?" The request didn't disturb the demon's calm gaze. "What you would do would assure victory for the First. Is the life of your lover worth the freeing of evil? Would you see his legions walk your world to assuage your pain?"

"No, of course not!" Buffy shook her head vehemently. "But I could make a difference! If I did it differently, if I… I'd thought it through, known about the amulet. Give me a second chance and I could make it right."

"Your arrogance astounds me." The demon steepled her fingers and watched Buffy with what was almost mild amusement. She gave a small shake of her head. "It was what he chose. You could not save him. I can not do as you ask. What is written I will not change."

Buffy closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. "Then _you_ save him. Bring him back. We can start writing again from here." Her final card. Her last hope.

There was a long, expectant silence as the demon considered. "It may be possible," she conceded. "But I need a focus for which to search. I need to know your vampire. You have nothing of his? No, I thought not. All that is left of him is what lies in your mind. You must share it with me."

"Share?"

"You must let me touch your mind." Around her the darkness shaded closer and the air was tense with waiting.

"No."

"Why not?" The demon's voice was calm, apparently unruffled.

"My _mind_? How do I know I can trust you? I mean, you evil types are hardly known for your trustworthiness…"

"Evil? Evil is a mortal concept. I am not bound by your mortal rules. I am before. Besides…" she shrugged one shoulder eloquently. "Good, evil… what does it matter? Much wrong is done in the name of goodness and evil can become the greatest good. You more than anyone should know this."

"Look, I'm not here for some sort of amateur philosophy lesson…"

"I know why you are here." The demon watched her impassively. "There is great power in you," she mused quietly. "Much of it I can see, much of it is written. But… there is more," she tilted her head slightly "that is hidden to me. I would understand that power. I would… see it."

"Oh, right! And I'm supposed to just trust you? You're not just gonna sail in there and take what you want."

"If I wanted to take it, I would strike you down where you sit. Your puny mortal frame could not hold power to equal mine. I do not wish to possess. Merely to understand. I crave the knowledge hidden from me."

"To do what? Use it against the slayer line?"

"I owe allegiance to no race. I am before." Her voice hissed with scorn. She sat back in her chair and watched Buffy, considering. Eventually she inclined her head. "Within you is something that only the Powers comprehend, that they keep hidden from others. Even from the Elders such as I. This is… unacceptable. I would know. I would know what they fear and hide." The demon's voice was suddenly hard. "That is my bargain. I will do nothing to harm you. Let me touch your mind and I will search for your lover. Or go. I tire of this."

Buffy closed her eyes wearily. Years of experience and all her ingrained slayer instincts railed against the thought of trusting a demon, of opening herself up to this creature. _But if it was the only way…?_ She opened her eyes. The demon wanted a taste of slayerpower? Right at that moment, she didn't much care if she took it all. "I have your word? As an Elder?"

"You have my word."

Buffy nodded tersely. She braced herself, waited for whatever was to come and hung on to the bright core of her hopes. The demon closed her eyes and reached out. Her touch took Buffy by surprise. It was gentle and warm, sinuously sliding through her mind, calming and comforting. The supple fingers of darkness roused an answer from something, a pull in the centre of her chest that made Buffy gasp. The demon-darkness continued to infiltrate her consciousness, slow and calming, but now with an air of focus, a suggestion of purpose. There was more – something behind the soothing caress, something Buffy felt that if she concentrated might just – _might just_ – be important. But the pull she felt answering the demon's touch stopped the thought, and she pushed back a sudden surge of fear.

Then suddenly there was something else; a bright harsh whiteness tore the soft touch of the demon from her mind with gut-wrenching force and threw her to the floor, leaving her retching helplessly. Around her the room was a silent cacophony of power, a stinging slap of discord that sent the darkness cringing back as if reprimanded.

As her consciousness cleared, Buffy raised her head to look at the demon. She sat as if nothing had happened, upright and calm in her chair, but around her the shifting darkness had retreated, crawled away to seethe in the corners of the room. Buffy pushed sweat-damp hair back from her face, wiped the taste of bile from her lips with the back of her sleeve. "What the hell was that?" Her voice was harsh, her throat vomit-raw.

The demon watched her impassively. "I will not help you," she said, her voice emotionless.

"What? Why?" She gasped for breath against the crushing hurt in her chest.

"Because I cannot. It is too late."

"No!"

"He has…" she hesitated then went on carefully, "moved beyond. He is beyond my influence."

Buffy pulled herself onto unsteady legs, hugging her aching ribs, a sudden numbing cold clutching at her bones. "That's _it_?"

The demon inclined her head.

"I don't believe you." Buffy forced the words through chattering teeth as the cold struck deeper.

"Nevertheless. I cannot summon him from beyond." The inky-black depths of the demon's eyes were touched with something that looked fleetingly like sympathy, her words rich with hidden meaning. "The game has moved on." She rose from her chair, snuffed out the small flame of the lamp and the darkness moved to cloak her. "We are all but pawns." The bitterness of her voice faded with her image until all that remained was an abandoned, hurting slayer in a rain-wet, darkened alley leading nowhere.


	4. Depression

**Buffy**

It was raining; a staccato tattoo of raindrops on the glass roof above her head. Cocooned in a blanket against the morning chill, she watched the water pool and trickle on the sloping glass as the hesitant grey light strengthened towards uncertain day. The rain increased with the daylight to a steady downpour that filmed the windows and smeared the view of the autumn-dreary garden, blurring the image of the few remaining blood-red, wearily drooping roses tossed by the strengthening wind. In the disorder of the tiny glass room Giles called his 'conservatory', she sat alone, silent among the remains of long desiccated plants and the bodies of the faded summer's insect visitors. The conservatory, looking out over the small, wall-enclosed garden, was rarely used by the others in the too crowded house. She could escape here – escape the well-meaning words, the constant nervous glances and the anxious sympathy. It had become her algae-greened refuge from the disorder of the day, her shadow-dark asylum during the long loneliness of the night.

At night she lit a candle, placed it on the window ledge and watched its flame dip and dance in the small air movements. Focussed on its brightness reflected in the night-black glass, her mind could empty to blessed silence. She could… not _think_. Just be. And that helped.

She heard Giles come down the stairs, heard him hover hesitantly at the entrance to the room leading to the conservatory, heard his suddenly purposeful steps toward her. She closed her eyes briefly and looked up at him with a small smile. "Hey," she said softly.

Giles stood next to her awkwardly. "Good morning. You're awake early. It's barely light."

"Couldn't sleep." She stretched and yawned. "I think my brain is still on US time."

"Ah. You… ah… seem to be having rather a lot of trouble sleeping lately…"

"Some. But, hey, not so surprising. One day California, next day Cleveland, on to Boston and now London. I have time-zone confusion. Not sure I could tell you what day it is, let alone what time."

"It _has_ been three weeks since we left the US…"

Buffy shrugged. "My brain kinda likes California time. It's stubborn like that. Stupid brain."

Giles sighed, and when he went on his voice was uncertain, hesitant. "Buffy… it's not… I mean, you aren't…?"

She interrupted him quickly. "You know, I always kinda thought the thing about the British weather being all with the constant rain was just so much hooey." She gestured at the rain-soaked garden. "Turns out not so much."

"Ah, yes, well, we do probably have more than our fair share. Atlantic depressions, you know."

"Can an ocean be depressed?"

"It's actually rather fascinating." Giles settled comfortably in a baggy wicker chair and polished his glasses enthusiastically. "It's all down to warm, tropical air and cold, polar air meeting over the Atlantic, you see - the warm air pushing north and the cold air pushing south. You end up with… with a low pressure system and… and then warm and cold fronts and they sweep in from the west bringing with them unsettled weather and… and a very distinctive weather pattern that… is…" his voice tailed away in the face of Buffy's raised eyebrow. "Um… well… it rains," he summarised. "Quite a bit."

"You don't say."

"But… no matter. A little rain won't hurt our plans."

"There are plans? Plans are never to the good." Buffy peered at him suspiciously.

"I thought perhaps you'd like to come with me to the Council this afternoon. We would be grateful for your input into the designs for the new training rooms, and really, it's probably about time you met the new Watchers…"

She turned her face away and looked back out over the garden. "Not today, Giles, huh?"

"But…"

"Another day," she said, her voice emotionless.

There was a silence. Buffy could almost hear Giles summoning the words, drawing on the courage to speak. Just like all the others, all of them so afraid of hurting her, of saying the wrong thing, of asking the wrong question, of being proved right. So rather than risk that, they said nothing – at least, to her. "Buffy, we're rather worried about you," he went on eventually. ". All of us. You seem very… well… we were worried that you may be… ah…that maybe…"

"I'm not depressed." She knew what they were saying. But she didn't do depressed. _Slayers _didn't do depressed…

"No…no, of course, I'm not… But, you know, it's perfectly understandable that you may be feeling a little… well, down maybe. You... you've lost your home, and… and then the changes, the upheaval… I… _we_ can't begin to understand how it must feel to suddenly not be the only… I mean, all the new slayers… And then there's… well, there's…"

"Spike. Then there's Spike. You can say his name."

"Yes. I understand, Buffy, really I do. You miss him, naturally…"

"You don't," she interrupted him, shaking her head wearily. "You don't understand. You never have and you can't now. And that's OK." She looked up at him earnestly. "I'm not depressed, Giles. I know that's what you all think, but I'm not. A lot's gone down…" she gave a short laugh at Giles' wry expression. "Go me with the understatement, huh?" She shook her head. "I'm just… tired, you know? Really, really tired." _Some days, bone-achingly, mind-numbingly, stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-off tired._ "And tired people just don't want to be designing training rooms and meeting new people who might not understand why other people are less than full of the joys of slayerness right now. That's all."

"Yes… yes, of course." Giles was clearly less than happy with her answer. "But you know, if you need to talk, any of us…"

"I will." Buffy smiled at him gratefully. "Honest – soon as I have something worth saying." She looked up as a gust of wind drove a sudden cloud of browning leaves against the windows. "So – is it gonna rain _all_ day?" She raised an eyebrow at Giles. "Because those rubber galoshes are not a good look on me."

"No." Giles looked at her intently. "Depressions pass, Buffy. The weather changes."

"And then?" She looked away.

"The depression moves on, the rain stops and the skies clear."

"And all's warm and sunny, right?" She trailed her finger through the condensation on the window, drew swirls and patterns that bled water.

"Well... actually, no. It's bright, but… colder."

"Well, there you go," she said softly. She gave a small shake of her head then looked over at him with a bright smile. "You know what would help right now? Tea. Good, strong British tea."

"Tea? Really?" Giles looked surprised.

"Sure! It always makes things better. I know. I've been watching _Eastenders_."

"Tea. Yes, good idea. And maybe some toast?" He got to his feet, clearly grateful for her request, eager to help.

"Tea and toast. Just the ticket. Giles…" she called after him as he headed for the door. He stopped and turned back to her. "I'm OK. Really."

"You know, it's just because we care…"

"I know." She smiled up at him. "Really I do. And it'll be fine. It's been a long few months and I just need rest is all. I'll be back to peachy with a side order of keen quicker than… well, something real quick. You'll see."

She wasn't sure if what she saw in his answering smile was hope or belief. When he'd gone she let her own smile fade. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, turned to stare out into the rain-wet garden, pulled the blanket tighter around herself and watched the rain fall.

**Spike**

The barman recognised him for what he was the minute he entered the room; if nothing else, the weeks he'd spent working with his cousin Willy down in the late lamented Sunnydale a few years back had taught him the signs. All hard, bad boy swagger and sneer, he'd the pale otherworldliness and just-under-the-skin hunger of the vampire – there was no mistaking it. Although, truth to tell, this one was different. He had an animal grace, a face that was staggeringly beautiful despite the cuts and bruises that marred it, but mostly it was a flash of something in ice-blue eyes that hinted at more. But – whatever else, he was a vampire, and the barman was sure as hell going to be careful, pretty or not. Shame though – he eyed the stranger's lean form appreciatively – just his type on the whole. But he was kind of attached to his blood.

He asked for a bottle and the barman brought it to him as he settled at the end of the bar, received a smile that almost made him forget his pledge to be careful. Man, that was one pretty face, beat up or not, with eyes to lose yourself in and a mouth that was just made for sin. But it was the air of hidden hurts and buried bruises that really caught his interest. God help him but he had a real soft spot for a man with a past, and something told him this one had a past unlike any other. So, despite himself, it was the lean blond who held his eye and his attention at the bar that night.

At first the vampire had been full of a hard glee, a clear determination to get heavily drunk and enjoy every second of the journey to oblivion. He'd drunk Jack Daniels neat from the strange, jewel-bedecked gold cup he'd brought with him, drunk it as if he'd been starved of alcohol for years. Any other customer and the barman would have long since stopped serving, sent him on his way with a recommendation to find a cab home but – vampires held their liquor better, and this one better than most.

The barman had watched in amusement as various of his customers, male and female, sidled up to the stranger, some bold, some less so, and tried to make conversation. Some of them the vamp had shared drinks with, but none of them held his attention for long. One or two less sensitive sorts persevered despite the vampire's obvious and rapid fading of interest – most got the uncomfortable message soon enough and left him alone. There was a moment with the pretty blonde woman when the barman thought that his vampire (funny how quickly he'd become 'his vampire') might just have been a little tempted, might just have taken up the clear invitation to that slim, lithe body. But the spark of interest in those blue eyes had faded suddenly and the girl had beaten a disappointed retreat. The barman felt remarkably happy about that.

As the night went on and the bar and the bottle emptied, eventually it was just the two of them, the vampire slipping from a determinedly cheerful pursuit of alcohol-driven oblivion to a morose silence and long, still moments staring at the strange cup.

The barman stood at the other end of the bar, polishing glasses and watching him. He should have shut up shop hours ago, but he didn't want to let this one go, fascinated by the emotions he saw playing out on the vampire's face as he drank. Fascinated largely because – well, in his experience, vampires had a limited range of emotions, largely revolving around anger, lust, envy, greed… all the usual Seven Deadlies, upfront and in your face. This one, however – this one ran deep.

The vampire sighed and finally looked up and met his eye. "So – you gonna come have a drink or what?"

"Don't mind if I do." The barman tried for casualness, but felt he'd probably missed by a mile. He picked a glass, poured himself a whiskey from the bottle of Jack's and tipped it toward the gold cup in the vampire's hand. "That's unusual. Looks old."

The vampire looked at the cup and snorted. "Yeah. Does, doesn't it? But then – things aren't always what they seem," he looked into the barman's eyes, "are they?"

"Ummm… no…" the barman felt a surge of something that felt remarkably like fear. He took a nervous swallow from his glass. What was it he'd promised himself about being careful?

The vampire looked away and helped himself to a cigarette from a pack on the bar. "Got a light, mate?" he raised an eyebrow. The barman's hand shook slightly as he flipped his lighter and held the flame to the end of the cigarette between the vampire's lips. He smirked then drew a deep lungful of smoke, letting it out through clenched teeth. "Been a while. Almost forgotten how these things taste."

"Gave them up for your health, did you?" The barman gave him a knowing smile.

"Yeah. S'right. Girl didn't like 'em." He looked down at the glowing tip of the cigarette. "Definitely not good for the health to do somethin' the girl didn't like." He stubbed the cigarette out.

"Things we do for love, huh?" the barman laughed nervously.

The vampire snorted. "Love." There was a long silence, then he spoke without looking up. "D'you sometimes wonder what's the point of it all, mate? What the _fuck_ you're supposed to do? You try to put it right, y'know? Try to fit, try to be a good man so that she…" He paused, the muscles of his jaw clenched. "Play the hero, 'cos that's what looks to be the right thing. But everythin' you touch – every _soddin'_ thing – you balls up. Or someone else balls it up it for you. An' there's sod all point in lookin' to the future 'cos someone will sure as hell fuck with that, too." He took a long swallow from his whiskey, drew air he didn't need hard through his teeth in a soft hiss, released it in a long sigh. "Ever thought perhaps you'd be better off shuffling off this mortal…" he snorted "_immortal_ coil? Wouldn't take much. Little bit o'wood an'… poof. Can do it now, too – solid through." A wince of pain and then another heavy swallow of neat liquor. "Ever thought how much easier it would be not to have to deal with all this _bollocks_?" He looked up and the barman flinched at the hurt in those, blue, blue eyes. "Ever thought about endin' it all?" The barman blinked, swallowed hard, forgot to breathe in the intensity of his gaze. Then the vampire blinked and the shutters came down, shielded the passion behind a careful blankness. "Nah." He stood up and threw a handful of notes onto the bar. "Me neither."

He crossed the room with an unconscious grace half hidden by a conscious swagger that not even two bottles of Jack's and the weight of the world could blunt. The barman found himself hoping that the stranger would stop, turn back. He didn't. As the door closed behind him, the barman picked up the heavily bejewelled cup discarded on the bar. He frowned at it for a long moment lost in the echoes of the vampire's words, then raised it in salute and drank it dry.


	5. Acceptance

**Buffy.**

She still has his lighter. The surface is smooth in her hand, worn by years of his touch. He'd always carried it, even after he'd stopped smoking, given up because she didn't like the smell. She knew it must have had a history for him, some memories invoked by its familiar weight, the way it fitted in his hand, the flare of the flame. She had never asked him. There was so much she'd never asked him.

She isn't sure even now why she'd picked it up that last night, why she'd slipped it into her pocket when she'd woken by his side and taken it with her to face their fate. A talisman. A symbol. Something of his she could return after… _after_…

But there had been no after.

She flicks the lighter open, strikes a blue-gold flame, watches it flicker gently in the soft breeze warm with the scents of a Roman spring. She looks at her reflection in the mirror, at the solemn green eyes staring steadily back at her, their shadowed depths reflecting the light of the flame.

They should have had their happy ever after. They deserved that. _He_ deserved that.

But… it wasn't to be.

He hadn't come back. He'd died a Champion's death; he chose to die because it was what he had to do, because it was the _right_ thing to do. It had taken a long time, but she understands now. And every day she wakes and she remembers and loves him more because of it.

Love. So much in a word. Four little letters that she'd thought she'd understood.

Until Spike.

Until that moment. Until it was too late.

She is always going to love him. He will be there, in the core of her heart, and she'd never want it any other way, because if he went there would be a cold, empty space that she'd never fill again. All that they'd had, all they had been, is written on her soul, woven through her being, bright as the fire that had taken him away. Time passes, the world turns, life goes on and she has no choice but to go on with it. And maybe the time will come when he won't be there as she wakes, there as she closes her eyes at night. Maybe days will go by when she doesn't think of him – but the memory of him will never be more than a whisper away.

She can still close her eyes and draw back the feel of him, the cool strength of his arms around her, holding her to him, holding her together. Sometimes the feeling is so intense she'll almost believe he's there, that if she just opens her eyes she'll see his face, see his eyes soften with the smile her has only for her, the smile that no-one else had seen, the _Spike_ that no-one else had seen. Her Spike.

But she is never going to see him again.

And although the knife-sharp, gut-wrenching despair that went with that realisation has faded to a blunt-edged, empty ache, it still hurts.

She knows she has to make her afterlife without him, and _for_ him, for all he did – and she's doing… OK. A new life in a new city with real job – no longer the 'one girl in the world', she's big sister to a whole horde of young slayers, a somewhat uncomfortable elder statesman for the new fighters against evil. She's needed and valued. She goes dancing, shopping, laughs with her friends – and if at first this had just been a shell, a cover for the inward lost and confused Buffy no-one saw, it was becoming easier to don that shell, easier to be the Buffy she knew everyone wanted her to be. So, here she is with an apartment of her own and a good, grown-up relationship with Dawn and a new – well, _boyfriend_, she supposes, who spoils and flatters her but who was is superficial as she keeps the relationship. Superficial is good right now. Life is – if not peachy – at least shaping up to be just that; a life. A life.

But despite everything, occasionally, just occasionally, she wishes – so hard it takes her breath away and she has to fold her arms tightly, _very, very tightly_, around the hurt to stop herself breaking – she wishes that he was here to share it with her.

The phone is ringing, insistent, invasive, intruding on her internal world.

Time to go. She's late for her date. Again

She watches the bright, steady flame a moment longer, then flips the lighter closed and slips it into its familiar home, in the left hand front pocket of her jeans.

**Spike**

"_So, what? We just have to live with it? Get on with our lives?"_

"_'Fraid so."_

"_Fine. No problem. I was plannin' on doin' that anyway."_

"_Yeah, me, too."_

"_Actually, I'm doin' it right now. As we speak, I'm movin' on." _

"_Movin' on."_

"_Oh, yeah." _

"_Right now." _

"_Movin'…_

Spike sniffed hard. "Don't s'pose you fancy movin' on down to the pub, then?"

"You're asking me out for a drink?" Angel's surprise was almost palpable.

"Well… yeah."

"But it's the middle of the day."

Spike looked at him in sheer disbelief. "And?"

Angel paused and gave it some more thought. "Me?" he asked eventually.

"Why not?"

"You want to go out drinking with me?" Angel was clearly having problems getting his head around this.

Spike's patience snapped. "No," he said acidly, "not really, but there's no-one else around!"

"Oh, thanks," Angel huffed. "Well, if I'm not even first reserve…"

Spike rolled his eyes in despair. "Oh, for… don't be an arse all your life! C'mon. Let's go drown some sorrows. Toast our new, shiny Buffy-free lives. Be like the old days... only without the muderin' an' pillagin' an' corrupting of the innocents. Although if you fancy it…"

"I…" Angel hesitated, then shook his head. "Nah. I got things to do." He sat down at his desk importantly.

Spike wasn't giving up that easily. "C'mon! Nothin' that won't wait, I'll wager. Surely the mighty evil empire can lumber on without you for an hour or so!"

"Yeah, but it won't be an hour or so, will it?"

"Well – no. Was kinda hopin' maybe a few beers, nice little lap dancin' club I know. There's this one girl, you should see the size of her… What?" he raised his arms in response to Angel's snort of disgust. "Movin' on, remember? So – what, you're gonna sit and brood all on your lonesome? Well, full marks for consistency but minus several thousand for imagination. What is it with you? Soul doesn't have to equal bloody boring, you know. Look at me! Still know how to have a good time, soul or no."

"Yeah, I know your 'good times'. Which is why I'm staying." Angel sighed heavily and looked up at Spike earnestly. "Things are going down, Spike. Big things. Need to keep my finger on the pulse."

"Yeah? What's up?" Spike settled on the corner of Angel's desk and gave hin his best concerned look.

"I… can't tell you."

"Oh." Spike frowned. "But you would if you could, right?"

"Well… actually… no."

"Thought not. Bloody drama queen." He sniffed. "Well, stuff you, mate. I'm gonna go get completely outta my tree and pick up a bird. Maybe two. Hope you an' the law firm from hell will be very happy together. Have a good brood." He set off across Angel's office at a swagger.

"You got over her quick." Angel's voice stopped him in his tracks.

He kept his back to his grandsire, hiding the flash of hurt. "Yeah. No point livin' in the past. Like we said. Movin' on."

"You know… you know it's for the best, right? Last thing Buffy needs right now is either of us complicating things."

"Last thing… yeah…" Spike made for the door determinedly.

"Walk away is the best thing all round."

"Yeah, well, you're the one with all the experience of that, mate, so I guess you know best, huh?" He made it to the door and kept walking. "Wastin' good drinkin' time here. Enjoy the sticking your finger wherever, yeah?" He closed the door to Angel's office behind him and leaned back against it, eyes shut.

"Spikey?" Harmony's voice greeted him. "Are you OK?"

He straightened up, frowning. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I dunno. Just thought, you know, having been over to Rome and what with the _slayer_," Harmony imbued the word with a healthy dose of sneering disdain, "being there, just wondered…"

"Well, don't. Everything's fine. Better than fine."

"Oh, OK…" Harmony didn't look or sound convinced. "Look, it's lunchtime. I know this really cool little sushi bar, it's, like, where all the stars hang out, and you can even get that poisonous fish there that I _so_ wouldn't try because, you know, it's really, _really_ deadly if they get it wrong and it can kill you… even although technically… I guess I'm dead already… Anyway, I was thinking I might just go down there right now, and maybe you'd…" she hesitated and smile awkwardly, "…wanna come?"

He looked at her blankly. "No."

"Oh." Harmony's smile crumpled.

Spike felt a twinge of conscience. "Don't like raw fish, pet."

"Oh! Oh, we could go somewhere else…" Harmony's smile battled on.

"Another time, huh? I gotta…" he gestured vaguely. "Stuff goin' down. Angel wants me to… Is there an office free?"

"An office?" Harmony hesitated uncomfortably. "Well, Gunn's not around, but…"

"That'll do nicely." Spike headed towards the empty office purposefully.

"But I don't think you're…" Harmony called after him.

"No problem." Spike raised a hand but kept walking. "Enjoy the fish."

_xxxxxxxxx_

He closes the door of the office behind him and makes for the hospitality bar, helps himself to a bottle of whiskey, opens it and throws himself down in Gunn's chair. Through the necroglass of the window he can see the pale sun, high in a hazed and gritty sky, the occasional seabird making its desultory way seawards, the glint of silver on aeroplane high above the brown-tinged clouds. He can hear the muted murmurings of the traffic below, the everyday noises of the building and its inhabitants, temporary and otherwise, doing whatever it was Evils'R'Us did at lunchtime of a working week. The world moving on.

He takes a drink from the bottle and winces as the neat spirit hits his growlingly empty stomach.

Lunch time. It would be evening in Rome, then. Buffy would be probably be getting ready to go out with… he winces … the Immortal.

_The Immortal?_

_What the bloody hell was she thinking…?_

No, he shrugs the tension out of his shoulders. That was OK. Her life, her choice. She'd moved on, got herself the normal… _normalish_… life she'd wanted and he was good with that. Happy to see her happy. Way it should be. Last thing either of them needed was stirring up the past. Angel had it right – walk away. She's better off without him. It's the right thing to do.

_Yeah._ He purses his lips and nods at the bottle in his hands. _He's good with that._

A scowl gradually settles on his forehead, his lower lip drawing forward into a pout.

_Like hell he was._

"Bollocks." He growls, slamming the bottle down on Gunn's desk and sending a spray of neat liquor over what were quite probably earth-changingly important papers. He is _not_ good with that. He is _not_ good with lurking here in LA, burying his head in the sand and trying to be something he isn't when the woman he loves… _loves_… is thousands of miles away and doesn't even know he's back. He is _not_ good with maybe never knowing if what he'd seen in her at the Hellmouth was real or imagination or just some bloody cosmic joke by the Powers that seemed to be intent on fucking his life up. And anyway, he's more than happy to take that risk – he is _not_ good with being a bleeding coward. And he most definitely is not good with being some pseudo-bloody-Angel.

Stuff the 'right thing'.

He. Is. NOT. Good.

He's almost mastered it. The alcohol helps – except when he goes too far, which, on reflection is more often than not. And the riling Angel, that helps, and the launching himself into unlikely alliances and even less likely battles and… hell, even the pulverisings Blue gives him help. Help stop him thinking too much, help keep her memory carefully locked away, just close enough to feel, but not near enough to hurt. He'd shut her away, refused the flames of what he felt for her the oxygen of her memory, let himself grow cold from lack of the fire, numbed his heart to save himself the pain. But the emptiness of the cold is worse than the pain of the fire.

_Well, fuck that._

He wants the fire back.

He closes his eyes and lets her come, the sight-taste-feel-sound-smell of her that is written in his blood. A kaleidoscope of images, of sensations, of pain and joy, of fear and trust, and desire and hate, and lies and truth, of the feel of her warmth around him, the smell of her hair, the sound of her voice, the taste of her mouth on his… all imprinted so deeply that the strength of what fills him feels almost real, and for a heart wrenching, breathless moment he thinks if he opens his eyes he'll see her face, her smile, the Buffy only he saw. The Buffy he loved… _loves still_... with body, mind, soul, _being._

Angel was wrong. Walking away was not the right thing. Not for him.

He opens his eyes.

Besides – he'd made a promise to a lady. He reaches into his duster pocket, pulls out a worn and charred PostIt note, and carefully smoothes it flat on the desk, his finger lingering on the faded ink of the numbers. Real lady she'd been too. He hesitates a moment longer, sniffs, shrugs his courage into place, picks up the phone and dials.

_xxxxxxxx_

In a small apartment somewhere in Rome, a phone is ringing…

_xxxxxxxx_

He makes a deal with himself. He thinks – seven rings. Seven rings then I'll hang up…

_One, two…_

She checks her make-up in the mirror, flicks a speck of mascara from her cheek.

_Three…_

He closes his eyes, tries not to think, just to wait…

_Four…_

She picks up her bag, frowns at the phone…

_Five…_

He tries to ignore the tightening in his throat, the growing sense of desperation…

_Six…_

Her hand is almost on the door and she's biting down on annoyance, because really, she's not _that _late…

_Seven…_

Seven… his hand tightens on the phone. _Well, what did you expect?_

She shakes her head, gives a resigned sigh and picks up the phone… to silence.

She listens for a moment to the echoing emptiness and feels a sudden desperate longing, a sudden surge of hope so strong it takes her breath away and she can only whisper…

"Spike?"

There is a pause – a second that seems to last for eternity.

"Hello, Buffy," he says softly.

And the grieving ends.


End file.
